


Sweetheart

by Shriek



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Catholic Guilt, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Really Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Suicidal Thoughts, sweetheart grip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:50:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9379223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shriek/pseuds/Shriek
Summary: Inspired  bythispost about Bucky having a sweetheart grip on his gun with Steve's picture.There are some things that war changes, and there are some things it doesn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please bear with me, this is my first ever time posting a WIP, despite many years of involvement in fandom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has Steve's face there to remind him. Every time he uses this gun, Steve sees. And he won't let Bucky forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know almost nothing about WWII or guns. I did minimal research on sweetheart grips. This is more about the angst than the war.

It’s a nice gun, that much is obvious as soon as he picks it up. And almost full too. Poor fucker didn’t have a chance to use it before he went down, before they all did. Bucky’s already decided to keep it when the guy beside him leans in and says, “You could replace the grip on that. I’ve seen guys do it. Put a picture of your girl back home behind it.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just takes the gun and keeps moving.

But he watches for the material he would need. A piece of windshield or port of a plane would do. And eventually he finds what he’s looking for. The guy who suggested it is long gone, so he doesn’t see Bucky hacking away at the tough plastic, carving until it fits, scuffed and dirty but still clear, onto the side of the stolen pistol. How he cuts the picture, as carefully as he can, to fit beneath it. Pokes little holes for the screws to go through and puts the whole thing back together.

It’s a while before he even has any reason to use the gun. It just stays tucked away at his side, in case things go even more badly than they usually do. When he does finally yank it out and aim for the German scout who managed to sneak too close behind him, he sees Steve’s face a split second before he pulls the trigger.

Steve watches him kill a man.

He doesn’t have time to think until much later, back at the base when the bloodshed is done for a few moments and they’re all trying to get as warm and full and clean as they reasonably can. He resists the urge to take out the gun and look at the picture. It was enough of a stupid risk putting it on in the first place. But it did the job he’d hoped it would do.

It was a reminder that before the war, he would do more than blink and steady his hand at the thought of killing someone. He would have hated the very idea of it. The picture was there to remind him that he used to be the type of man who would laugh easy, who would never even throw a punch unless he had to. Which, if he’s honest, he had to a lot. But it was never easy, not like it was now. Violence was never his instinct. And there was someone waiting for him, if they were both lucky, who expected him to be that man still.

It was penance. Each time he used that gun, he watched someone bleed and scream, and Steve watched him do it and move on and do it again. And when the danger had passed and nerves had settled as much as they could, he would think, _‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’_ wondering if Steve would even recognize the man he was now. He would let himself wonder until he fell into the depths of wondering. When he would wonder if it wouldn’t be better if he never had to go home and let Steve see. Then he would take out the gun and see the picture, and Steve’s face would stop the wondering as easily as he had started it.

Dugan’s the first one to see it. Bucky has used the gun three times that week, all nice clean headshots. But it’s the first time in a long time, and as usual, it’s got him twisted up inside. He thinks it’s appropriate; the gun that usually sees the worst, most intimate kills he makes is the one with Steve’s face on it. He’s standing off in a darker corner, just barely out of the incessant rain, smoking a cigarette and looking at Steve. Dugan announces his presence loudly, probably so he doesn’t startle Bucky, but it gives him just enough time to school his expression.

“Who’s that?” Dugan asks when he gets close enough to see. Trying to put the gun away at this point would have been more suspicious than just telling the lie he had prepared.

“My cousin. He’s real sick, and since his ma died I took care of him, when he let me. Stubborn sonofa bitch. He’s just as likely to die during the war as I am.” All but the first part is true, which makes it easier to say, easier to pass off as the whole truth. Dugan stares at the picture for a second longer, then claps him on the shoulder.

“Then you better survive to make it home. Someone’s gotta be there to take care of the kid, or bury him.”

He walks away, leaving Bucky to look at Steve for a while longer until he forces himself to straighten up and shake it off. Dugan is right, of course. No matter what’s waiting for him, he’s gotta try his damndest to get back and take care of Steve however he can. No one else will.

When Steve comes for him in Azzano, too tall and too muscular and wearing some ridiculous outfit, Bucky thinks, _‘Oh, an angel has finally come for me,’_ and, _‘of course it’s Steve.’_ But before he has a chance to think much more than that, Steve is busting the restraints on the table and hauling him upright, which brings all the pain back to his body and leaves him stumbling as much in horror as from his weakened limbs. Because Steve is at least a foot shorter and definitely not strong enough to support Bucky’s weight, which is what the man wearing Steve’s face is doing now. He can’t get out all the questions he wants to ask, not when they’re running and fighting is going on all around them, so Bucky gets his feet beneath him, because that’s what he does, and he follows Steve. Because that’s what he does.

On the march back, when Bucky hasn’t had nearly enough time to process but enough time to be pretty sure he’s not hallucinating, he demands answers. Steve gives them in a hushed voice, trying not to be overheard, and Bucky struggles to control his own volume at what he gets.

Only Steve would be stupid enough to join the army as sick as he is. _Was._ Only Steve would be stupid enough to volunteer for an experiment that should have killed him, just so he could fight. _But it worked._ And now what? He’s here, and he’ll see all the things Bucky thought he’d rather die than have him see, even the echoes of them in Bucky’s face. He needs to be protected from that. _But maybe he doesn’t._ Maybe he doesn’t need Bucky at all, anymore.

Steve seems confused, almost hurt, at how angry Bucky gets. Because he doesn’t know. He can storm in single handedly on the power of his righteous fury because he doesn’t know that sometimes you can have all the men and the high moral ground and better strategy and still lose. Because the other side had better guns. Or the weather took a bad turn, or any little thing went wrong and suddenly your men are dying and your plan is failing and somehow it’s always your fault. Steve doesn’t know because he still believes that the ends justify the means. He still believes in never leaving a man behind, and in the strength of ideals. And all the shit that, whether it’s true or not, doesn’t fucking matter when you’re living the kill or be killed reality of war.

But Bucky doesn’t say any of that. He doesn’t explain that he’s angry because he’s terrified. That he doesn’t want Steve to become jaded and bitter like Bucky and everyone else who goes through this. He just calls Steve a reckless fucking idiot, and lets his anger pour out into tearing Steve a new one for dropping, alone, into a Hydra base because he couldn’t stand the idea of not rescuing prisoners.

“I did it for you.”

The words actually stop him in his tracks.

“What?” he hisses. Now it matters that they’re not overheard. Now Bucky thinks of the grip of his gun and how Steve being here is dangerous in a whole other way.

“They said the 107th and you weren’t back but you weren’t confirmed dead either and I just… I couldn’t think. I couldn’t _breathe_ , Buck, I just had to come looking.”

“You could have gotten yourself killed!” He’s barely fighting the urge to shout now, but Steve stuns him into silence again.

“I know.”

He gives himself a second, just one, to see the open, undaunted expression on Steve’s face. To understand exactly what it means. Then he keeps walking. 

Steve on the grip of his gun, small and smiling and millions of miles away; that kept Bucky sane, kept him fighting. Steve here on the ground, strong and honorable and unafraid to die; that will make Bucky kill, could make him throw away everything. With Steve at his side, Bucky will win the war if it kills him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve discovers the gun, its meaning, and a secret or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took ages! It turns out I have trouble with Steve's POV. This takes place an indeterminate amount of time after the first chapter, and could probably function as a sequel instead of a second chapter, but yolo. The third chapter is in the works, and will hopefully be the last. We'll see.

On the ride back to base, Steve sees Bucky fall to his knees over, and over, and over. He hears the crack of two near-simultaneous gunshots, Bucky’s cry of pain, the thud of two bodies falling to the ground. He’s seen worse wounds, seen more blood, but when it’s Bucky’s blood and Bucky’s pain-stricken face, Steve always has to fight for his composure.

And then there was the gun. Bucky had lost his rifle somewhere in the chaos and had been using his sidearm to cover their retreat. When the bullet hit him he dropped and Steve had rushed in with his shield raised, fearing the worst. He had only heard the cry and seen Bucky fall. Bucky was reaching for the gun when Steve got to him, so Steve picked it up and made to haul Bucky to his feet. But the grip, half obscured by his fingers, caught Steve’s eye. Beneath a piece of rough plastic was a picture of Steve from his nineteenth birthday.

“Give it to me,” Bucky hissed, reaching out his hand.

“Buck…”

Bucky snatched the gun from Steve and tucked it away, then let Steve help him to his feet.

They make it back as the first hints of the sun begin to lighten the sky. As soon as they pull up, Steve turns to Bucky.

“Get that looked at.” He leaves no room for argument.

The rest of them unload the jeep and check in with Philips. By the time Steve has a spare moment, the sun is fully up and the base is alive with activity. He slips inside the field hospital and scans the rows of beds until he sees Bucky staring absently at the ceiling.

“Hey Buck, how’re you feeling?” He always feels the need to whisper in hospitals, even though the beds around Bucky are all empty.

“Fine. Should be good to go in a few days.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from the water stain on the ceiling, so Steve sighs and nudges him until Bucky makes space for him to sit down. The bed creaks under their combined weight.

“You have my picture on your gun.” He hasn’t had time to think on how he feels about that; he’s relying on Bucky to tell him.

But Bucky just says, “Yeah,” and keeps staring at the ceiling.

“I didn’t even know you took it with you.”

“I wanted something to remember you by. It helps.”

“With remembering me?”

The idea that Bucky would need a picture to remember him, the idea that Bucky could forget him at all sends a frightened shock through him.

“With remembering who I’m supposed to be.” Bucky rolls onto his side, putting his face a few inches from Steve’s knee, then seems to think better of it and sits up.

“What d’you mean?”

Bucky stares at Steve’s knee.

“It’s different, now that you’re here. Sometimes. But… you believed in the war. You went on about duty and humanity. You let them fuckin’ experiment on you so you could come over here and… Well, you’re Captain fucking America.”

Steve stands and takes a step back, too angry to think.

“Fuck you. Captain fucking America?” He plucks at the garish costume that clings to his chest. “Captain fucking America sells war bonds and has never been in a real fight in his life. How many times has someone split their knuckles on my face? How many times did I have to hear someone say everyone would be better off if people like me did the decent thing and died? Yeah, I believed in the war. Doesn’t mean I wanted to pick up a gun and crawl through the mud. But I _had_ to. Just like you did. Because it’s people like me, and anyone else they don’t think is fit enough, that they’re rounding up and gassing. Or d’you forget I didn’t always look like this?”

Bucky makes a miserable face, and without meeting Steve’s eye he says, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Steve snaps. He knows it’s harsh, but he can’t tamp down the anger that rises out of his hurt. When did Bucky, of all people, stop seeing him?

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says to his feet. “You weren’t here and I…” He finally looks up and meets Steve’s eye. “I needed something to keep me human. I couldn’t go back to you nothing but a killer. You’re more than that. Even now, you’re better.”

Just like that, Steve understands. He thinks of the action-consequence when a gun jolts in his hand and a man drops to the ground. Can still hear the terrifying crack the first time he flung the shield and ended a life with his throw. His anger falls away.

“I’ve killed people, Buck. With my _hands_. With guns, sure, and the shield, but...” He holds out his killer’s hands to Bucky, like the evidence of bones breaking beneath them is painted there.

Bucky takes Steve’s right hand in both of his own and rubs a thumb over his palm. Steve holds his breath, not daring to look away, but terrified they might not be alone. Bucky stares intently at his hands for a few seconds. Without letting go he stands, glances around the empty room, and presses his lips to Steve’s.

“Okay.”

“Okay?" Steve breathes. They’re standing so close he can feel Bucky’s breath on his face, his hand still cradled in Bucky’s between them. Bucky’s lips part just slightly and Steve thinks Bucky might kiss him again when the sound of familiar raucous voices right outside makes them jolt apart.

Steve can barely tear his eyes away from Bucky, who slips on an easy grin as the Commandos all pour in at once.

“See, I told ya he’d be fine!” Dum Dum walks up and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. “It’d take more than a graze to put our boy down.”

“It was a pretty deep graze. What’d they say?”

“Few days rest and I’ll be good as new.”

Morita raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. Steve thinks of the deep gouge in Bucky’s side, the blood that covered his hands when he helped him stand, and has to clench his fists to keep from reaching out, making sure Bucky is really there.

“Well Barnes didn’t die _and_ we get time off. Sounds to me like cause for celebration.”

“I like the way you think.”

It’s still too early for even the most generous excuses to drink, so the Commandos, with nothing better to do, set themselves up on the empty beds surrounding Bucky’s and make general nuisances of themselves to the nurses caring for the few other patients. Steve tries to focus on the card games and banter, but it’s almost a relief when he gets called into a meeting to discuss their next actions.

Without the rest of the Commandos there it’s hard to get much actual planning done, but Philips seems to think they all need some downtime. Except Steve. He keeps Steve busy for most of the day, taking advantage of his eye for strategy by having him look over plans that he probably doesn’t technically have the clearance for. But it feeds Steve’s persistent desire to feel useful and does a halfway decent job of keeping his mind off Bucky. When Philips finally lets him go the Commandos, including Bucky, have relocated and started in on dinner. They’re passing around something that must taste awful, if their faces are anything to go by.

“Hey, Buck, should you be out of medical?”

“He’s fine!”

“We snuck him out.”

“I’d say the man’s earned a drink or three.”

“Va te faire foutre.”

“I claim no responsibility for this.”

Steve frowns at all of them.

“I’m fine Steve, really.”

“That’s the spirit!” Falsworth says, and hands him the canteen. Bucky takes a swig, grimaces, and hands it off to Morita.

“Jones, where the hell did you _get_ that rotgut?”

He shrugs. “Traded one of the guys in the 452nd for it.”

“Hope you didn’t trade anything good, “ Morita says.

“Hey, it’s getting your ass drunk, isn’t it?”

“We’ll see.” Morita takes a sip and sneezes. “Goddamn.”

Steve nudges Dum Dum and he moves to the left, making a space between him and Falsworth for Steve to sit down. When the canteen makes its way around to Steve Dernier says, “You should probably eat before- Or not,” as Steve takes a sip.

“Jesus.” Steve shakes his head like he can shake out the taste and passes the canteen.

“Philips give you hell?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and glances at Bucky.

It’s a mistake. He has a cigarette in his mouth, one hand cupped around the end of it while he flicks his lighter with the other. The sight of his lips pursed around the cigarette makes Steve’s stomach clench. He’s fifteen suddenly, sitting upwind and trying not to stare as Bucky tips his head back and exhales smoke. Trying not to imagine what his lips would feel like. Only, now he knows.

The whole spin of the world feels reversed as Steve thinks of the gun, of Bucky’s hands, his lips, the heat of him standing too close for safety. 

Sweetheart. He hears the word in Bucky’s voice, like he’s casually thrown it at some dame in the past. Lips, hands, gun. Steve’s picture beneath dirty plastic. It’s called a sweetheart grip.

Dum Dum elbows him to take the canteen, Bucky breathes out smoke, and the world keeps turning in its strange new way. 

Sweetheart, Steve thinks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the kiss. Feelings are shared, things begin, and things end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy has this been a ride! My first ever posted WIP is now finished! Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos! There miiiiight be a sequel, if I can swing it!

Bucky recites a Hail Mary in his mind every time he thinks of Steve’s lips against his. Though his faith is broken at best, it’s the only thing that distracts him and leaves him feeling guilty enough not to do it again. It wouldn’t be fair to drag him into this last depth that Bucky lives in, when Steve already has blood on his soul.

He can feel Steve’s eyes on him but doesn’t look, doesn’t want to know what he’ll see. 

He wakes every morning expecting a blue discharge to come down on him and every day that it doesn’t it gets harder not to hope. He argues himself in circles about how Steve felt about it, why he hasn’t done anything and what Bucky should do, what he wants to do. He doesn’t look at his gun.

It’s almost a relief when intel comes in about Zola, plunging them into planning and making it much easier to avoid being alone with Steve. He can practically feel Steve’s growing urge to approach him.

The day they make ready to move on the info, Steve catches him in the field hospital again just as he gets cleared for duty. There’s a grim expression on his face as he marches up to Bucky and says in that horrible film perfect Captain America voice,

“I think you should sit this one out.”

Anger floods him and Bucky snaps, “Like hell! I _just_ got cleared, Steve, I’m fine. Don’t you fucking do this to me, not on this one.”

“Bucky, there’s no way you’ve healed enough; you got shot less than a week ago!”

He reaches for Bucky’s shirt and slides his hand under it, going to look at the wound, then freezes. His eyes snap up to look at Bucky’s face and he quickly steps back.

“Let me see it.” 

Bucky thinks about telling Steve to go talk to the nurses if he doesn’t believe him, but instead he lifts his shirt. The wound is still puffy and red, but it’s healed enough. Steve stares in confusion until Bucky puts his shirt back down.

“Satisfied?” Steve hesitates for a moment, glancing around. The hospital is crowded now. Anything they say will be overheard.

“Do you regret it?” His expression is pained and Bucky wants desperately to pull him in, to make it go away. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Every one of the million ways this conversation could go spin in Bucky’s head at once. Yes, he regrets it, with every part of himself, because it’s been that much harder not to touch Steve the way he wants to ever since. 

No, he doesn’t regret it, could never regret it because getting to kiss Steve, even once, is worth any hell God or Hydra could cook up for him. He’d climb back onto Zola’s table willingly if he could keep just that memory.

“Do _you_?”

Steve shakes his head, looking terrified at the admission.

“No,” he breathes.

Bucky beams. He’s halfway to reaching out before he stops himself, but goddamn him he can’t fight down his smile. Steve smiles back, laughing a little hysterically.

“You had me thinking all sorts of awful shit, avoiding me like that.”

“Since I was thirteen,” is all Bucky says. He wants to say so much more but he knows Steve will understand. Steve laughs again and rubs his face.

“Fuck. Since I was _six_.”

“Jesus.”

“I know.”

A nurse bustles past with a pile of sheets and Steve’s smile drops.

“We should get going.”

“Right.”

The smile keeps creeping back onto Steve’s face as they walk to where the others are loading up their gear. Morita looks up and he just manages to school his expression.

“You didn’t tell him?”

“He didn’t _convince_ him.”

“Told you he wouldn’t be able to. If I were Barnes I’d’ve socked him just for suggesting it. He owes Zola a thing or two.”

“Like a bullet,” Bucky says cheerfully. Just the thought of being face to face with Zola again has had Bucky shaking his way through most nights, but bringing the sick fuck in might lessen some of the constant heaviness he feels. Might give him answers.

They finish loading the truck and then load themselves in as well, settling down for a long, uncomfortable ride. Bucky is pressed tight against Dum Dum on one side, Steve on the other. They’ve done this plenty of times, but it’s different now. 

He tries to conjure up the shame and fear that kept him away from Steve for the past few days but instead his mind takes him back to Brooklyn. Steve sitting by the window, leaning against the sill but careful not to bump the stick jammed in to keep the window open in the summer heat. He’s sketching in the notebook Bucky bought him for Christmas, brow furrowed as he turns the page sideways to get a better angle. The sun is shining in his hair and it’s the most beautiful thing Bucky’s ever seen. He wishes he could be an artist like Steve, to capture this moment on paper forever. 

Like all the times Steve drew him. Figure studies, shading practice, whatever idea came into his mind, Bucky was often his model. He remembers Steve’s eyes scrutinizing him and laying down lines on the page, again and again, putting Bucky to memory. It’s suddenly breathtaking, all the time they’ve wasted. He tries to join the casual chatter, but his mind keeps drifting back to Steve.

How many times could they have kissed by now? Could he have learned the lines of Steve’s body with his hands like Steve learned his with a pencil? 

_Áve María, grátia pléna, Dóminus técum…_

This is going to be a problem. All throughout the long ride, Bucky has to cut off his thoughts as they wander. Every time a bump jostles him against Steve, he wants to turn his head and press his face into Steve’s neck. If they were alone, would Steve let him?

After the initial shock of Steve’s new towering height and broad shoulders had worn off, Bucky had done a pretty decent job of not letting his eyes wander. He’d been doing it most of his life, after all, and not just around Steve. But now that he knows it’s possible, that all the things he’s avoided thinking about until he was alone and desperate could actually happen, it’s like he’s been electrified with desire. Constantly stopping himself from imagining Steve’s hands, his mouth, the way he would look spread out beneath Bucky.

When they get to the dropoff point and begin making camp for the night, Dum Dum takes him aside. Bucky’s heart jacks into overdrive at the firm hand on his shoulder and serious expression on Dum Dum’s face.

“You okay? You’ve been real quiet, and I told Cap he had no right tellin’ you to stay behind on this one, but… none of us know what that sick fuck did except you.”

Bucky almost laughs with relief. “I’ll be a lot better when I have the bastard’s head under my boot.”

“Damn right! I know we gotta bring him in alive, but that don’t mean we can’t rough him up a bit first.” Dum Dum squeezes Bucky’s shoulder and walks back to help set up.

The first thing he’s aware of is a familiar all-over ache. His clothes are soaked through with sweat and when he opens his eyes, his vision is fever hazy. As soon as it clears, Bucky jolts in fear at the face leaned in close to his and finds he can’t move. Strapped down tight to the table, Bucky has nowhere to go as Zola looks down at him and smiles.

“It’s good to have you back, Sergeant Barnes. I don’t like to leave my projects unfinished. Especially not one so promising as this. Let’s proceed, shall we?”

He holds out his hand for something and a tall figure comes into view. Bucky doubles his struggling as Steve, dressed in all black with Hydra’s lurid red symbol across his chest, hands Zola a file.

“It was very kind of Captain Rogers to return you to us.”

Cold shock rushes through Bucky, clenching tight in his chest. It has to be a ruse. Steve’s infiltrated Hydra somehow. Come to save him again. Steve would never…

Steve turns, looks down at him in disgust, and Bucky screams so hard he jolts himself awake, an anguished groan dying on his lips. On the other side of the tent, Morita lays with his back to Bucky, seeming to be asleep. But Bucky can tell from the tension in his shoulders that it’s just a courtesy. Whether he was already awake or Bucky’s nightmare woke him, Morita heard him cry out in his sleep. If he was loud enough, the others probably did too. Bucky rolls onto his back and tries to let himself relax back into sleep, but it doesn’t work. His whole body is coiled tight from the dream, and trying to undo it just brings the shivering on. He’s only just managed to drift off when Falsworth wakes him up for his turn on watch. He sits at the edge of their camp in the hours just before dawn, tense and alert for any signs of movement.

The wind whipping through the mountain pass makes a constant rushing howl that feels like it’s coming from inside his head as Bucky stares down the zipline that will deliver him to Zola. Steve is staring too, like if they look long enough they can conjure Zola into being below. The plan is about as reckless as the things they usually attempt, but the target has Bucky’s insides pulling away with everything he has. Without thinking, he seeks comfort in the familiar, in Steve’s voice, and their shared past. Steve plays off of him easily, and it steadies Bucky’s nerves just enough. Enough that when the intel is confirmed and the train comes speeding into view, Bucky can square his shoulders and drop down towards his nightmares after Steve without hesitation.

The screaming of his instincts only intensifies as they move through the deathly quiet train. Steve’s confusion is obvious, his posture too lax. Bucky makes up for it reflexively, scanning for traps as Steve walks ahead.

They’re trapped anyway. Steve slams against the doors separating them, his panic clear, and Bucky turns just in time to open fire on the Hydra agent coming up from the other end of the car. Then it’s not one guy, it’s three, and Bucky knows how this works. Fire, cover, repeat. Survive. Get to Steve. 

When his Thompson runs out of ammo and he pulls out his sidearm, he gets a glance of Steve’s face on the grip as he flings himself across the car while he shoots. He’s running low on bullets and there’s still too much fire coming from the other end of the car. _Get to Steve._ He fires his last round and looks down at the picture, Steve’s sheepish smile. Bucky slumps back against the wall, gone numb with the thought of all the things he’ll never get to do. He’s just about ready to step out from his cover and face death standing up when the door behind him opens, and there Steve is.

It’s an ironic role reversal, Steve coming in at the last second to pull his ass out of trouble. Like how women’s eyes drift right over him on their way to Steve’s broad shoulders now. Bucky bites down on the bitter taste of not being needed.

“I had him on the ropes.”

“I know you did.”

But of course it’s only a moment of respite before a massive metal-covered man steps into view, the familiar hum and blue glow their only warning before Steve is shoving Bucky behind him and trying to brace himself against the blast. The entire side of the train is blown open, the wind roaring in again with the panic at seeing Steve down. Bucky grabs the shield for cover as he moves forward, firing. Zola’s words echo inside his head as another energy burst flings Bucky right out of the train.

The terror in his mind bleeds out into the mountain rushing past beneath him as Bucky clings to an unsteady railing. Not now, he thinks desperately. Not now that he knows Steve loves him. Not now that he’s found a way to anchor the goodness left in his soul. Not now that the sweetheart grip that kept him fighting comes with an actual sweetheart right there at his side. 

Steve inches closer to him, offering his hand. Bucky reaches out, thinking _sweetheart_ with every bit of fierceness he can muster. The railing breaks. Bucky falls.

He faces death not standing up, but in Steve’s face disappearing above him.

Sweetheart.


End file.
